Read Online Regency Masquerade by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page B

did not know it. “Perhaps the custom is not followed in Scotland.” Lady Crieff had nothing to say to this.
    He spoke on enthusiastically about Walpole’s mansion. This led easily to a discussion of Gothic novels, since Walpole’s Castle of Otranto had been written at Strawberry Hill, using his own house as a background. He soon learned Lady Crieff was knowledgeable about Gothic novels. Her girlish enthusiasm for black veils and secret doors suggested an immaturity he had not felt last night, nor did she fall into any outrageous vulgarity.
    After half an hour, Hartly called for fresh coffee, and they settled in like friends.
    “I see you have overcome your aversion to Major Stanby. I was eavesdropping when he accosted you at breakfast, too,” he said shamelessly.
    “He did seem very friendly.”
    “No sly looks from the green eyes?” he asked playfully.
    “No, I believe he must have heard something about my history, for he was noticeably approving. He even asked me for a dance.”
    “It is remarkable how a fortune improves a lady’s character,” he said, and laughed.
    “Oh!” She gave a tsk of annoyance. “I cannot imagine how anyone in this out-of-the-way place learned about me. You—you have heard, too, then?”
    “It is as well known as an old ballad by now that you are the wealthy young widow of an elderly Scottish squire. I do not know how word got about. Perhaps the locals had it of Lady Marchbank.”
    “Very likely that is it.” How clever of Cousin Marchbank!
    “I still say old Stanby wants watching,” he said, making a joke of it now. “He is not too old to stand up and jig it, as he told you himself.”
    “You do have big ears, Mr. Hartly!”
    “I can hear a church bell ringing—and a warning bell. Take care or you will find yourself saddled with another older husband.”
    “One was enough!” she said with feeling. At Mr. Hartly’s shocked expression, she feared she was overdoing the vulgarity. “Not that I mean Sir Aubrey was a bad husband. He was the soul of generosity. It is just that—” She stopped, searching her mind for some excuse for having disparaged him. “We were not well-off, you see. Papa was so pleased when he offered. And really, Aubrey was very kind. He was always good to me.”
    “A lady has no need to apologize for marrying well, Lady Crieff. It is no new thing under the sun. May and December do not jog along together. That, too, is old history. December should realize it if May does not.”
    Yet he was annoyed that Lady Crieff had married an old man for money. She was young, with a young woman’s passion. With her beauty, she could have married a young and wealthy gentleman. It seemed obscene to think of her in the arms of a gouty old laird. But of course she had assumed this veneer of gentility, which still slipped upon occasion, when she married her husband. As it was none of his concern, he soon spoke of other things.
    When David returned, she rose. “Will two o’clock be convenient for our drive, Mr. Hartly?” she asked.
    “Fine. I look forward to it.”
    Moira and Jonathon went upstairs. As soon as they were beyond hearing, she said, “What are they saying about us in the taproom?”
    “Ponsonby used the term cream-pot love. They think you married Crieff for his blunt.”
    “But do they know about the jewelry?” she asked.
    “I believe so. They lowered their voices when I was nearby, but I heard Ponsonby say to Stanby, ‘Where do you think she has them?’ I am sure they were talking about the jewelry.”
    “Good! And it all happened without our saying a word. That is the best way.”
    Jonathon sat looking out the window, the picture of youthful restlessness. “I wish we had brought our mounts. P’raps Cousin Vera can lend us a pair of prads. It is damned tedious sitting about all day.”
    “You brought your Latin reader,” she reminded him.
    He groaned when she put the book in his hands and took up her embroidery to sit with him and make